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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28018452">Shepherd, Joy &amp; Blankets</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/insistentbass/pseuds/insistentbass'>insistentbass</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Festive Flings [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Blankets, Christmas, Christmas Cookies, Christmas Fluff, Drinking, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Reconciliation, Rejection, Swearing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 21:42:03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,776</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28018452</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/insistentbass/pseuds/insistentbass</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>'Sherlock chuckles, that double bass laugh he does only when he’s particularly pleased with himself. It’s more endearing than it should be. It’s been so long since John’s heard it that he can’t help but smile, too.'</p><p>John pulls back from a kiss. Sherlock disappears for a few days. There's a hill, and snow, and it's almost Christmas. I hate summaries.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Festive Flings [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2042989</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>87</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>2020 Advent Ficlet Challenge</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Shepherd, Joy &amp; Blankets</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Prompt fic for 2020 Advent – Shepherd, Joy and Blankets. I started this off hoping to quickly write the three prompts together into a short ficlet due to lack of time, and well. Technically it's the length of six ficlets, but who's counting.</p><p>This oscillates between angst and fluff. Just another ‘first kiss’ scenario flanked by some poor decision making and dramatic landscape. Mostly just a meandering bunch of feelings and thoughts from John's head. I really know how to sell my writing.</p><p>Enjoy!</p><p>B x</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>They’ve been here before.</p><p>Well, not here exactly. But south of sober, stumbling around Baker Street trying to both keep each other awake and also secretly fall asleep. John can’t find the post-it notes so that one’s out of the window, the memory of the last time they played is almost too traumatic, anyway. Cluedo is a definite no. In fact, he’s not even certain that particular game survived the explosive remodel of the flat last year. Hopefully not.</p><p>“Shall we just watch some crap telly?” John suggests, already letting his tired bones sink into the sofa.</p><p>He’s not even sure why they ended up going to the Yard’s Christmas party. Only Greg really wanted them there, and the big day is still a fortnight away, making the streams of tinsel and sudden outbursts of bad festive chorus seem a little ridiculous. However, Molly had offered to babysit, and the chance to be both child and case free for a night seemed too good an opportunity to pass up.</p><p>For a couple of hours, it was almost like being a regular person.</p><p>They’d managed to keep conversation light, recounting a few choice adventures from the year to a captive audience. Sherlock had even bought a couple of beers himself, and the concerned look he’d been giving John intermittently for the last twelve months seemed to melt away with every mouthful. It felt a little bit like the old days, for a while there. Staring at Sherlock’s animated face while he rattled off amazing and seemingly obvious deductions, being the Boswell sidekick instead of the sad eyed widow.</p><p>“Ugh, fine” Sherlock sighs dramatically, finally shaking off his coat and jacket.</p><p>John watches him glide into to the kitchen and begins flicking through the channels on the small LCD he’d set up a few weeks ago, mostly so Rosie could watch cartoons. There’s not a lot on at such a late hour, anything showing after eleven seems to be a re-run, and he quickly skips over an old Connie Price repeat.</p><p>“Here” Sherlock flops into the seat next to him, knee bumping John’s own.</p><p>Poised between those long fingers is a caramel slice, his favourite, stolen from the Christmas buffet. Under normal circumstances, John would wonder how long it’s been sat in the man’s pocket for, but right now he couldn’t care less.</p><p>“You bloody gem” He says, cupping a hand underneath the crumbly mess as he shoves it unceremoniously into his mouth.</p><p>Sherlock chuckles, that double bass laugh he does only when he’s particularly pleased with himself. It’s more endearing than it should be. It’s been so long since John’s heard it that he can’t help but smile, too. Sherlock still functions like he always has, yet sometimes, hidden between the cracks, there’s a sadness. It pulls at the edges of his mouth when John pretends not to look, is plain and raw in the red spidery veins of his eyes when he returns from Sherringford.</p><p>The television has settled onto an Only Fools and Horses episode, Del Boy and Rodney run through the back alleys of Peckham dressed as Batman and Robin. John side eyes Sherlock, who looks confused but also mildly interested, so he lets it play out, smirking at the crumbs settling at the corner of the man’s mouth. Sherlock waves a hand at the screen.</p><p>“What’s the premise here, explain it to me”</p><p>So John does, describing the ins and outs of David Jason’s character, eyes watering at Sherlock’s slightly inebriated attempts at Cockney Rhyming Slang. At some point he’s slouched down and toed his shoes off, crammed into the corner of the couch by Sherlock sitting at the other end, long legs stretched between them. The heels of his feet press into John’s thigh and he’s reminded of the same touch all those years ago, days before his wedding. He clears his throat and shifts a little, attempting to dislodge the pressure. All it does however, is make Sherlock slump down further in his seat, placing his ankles over John’s knee and into his lap.</p><p>“What exactly do you think this is?” He asks, trying to keep his tone light around the rock in his belly.</p><p>“Comfortable?” Sherlock ventures, eyes glued to the storyline he’s now invested in. “Now be quiet and stop moving”</p><p>Nothing is wrong, John tells himself. Everything is absolutely sodding perfect as the weight of Sherlock’s feet settle into the soft of his thigh. There’s no reason he’s straining to keep his arm across the back of the sofa instead of resting a hand on Sherlock’s ankle, the ivory curve of it poking out from his trousers.</p><p>“Yes, your majesty”</p><p>Whisky would be good right about now. Except John’s not supposed to be chasing beers with spirits anymore, or finding comfort in the bottom of a glass. His new and thoroughly vetted therapist keeps warning him that particular combination is not the answer. John’s not so sure she knows what she’s talking about most of the time – it’s in his genetics after all, a long bloodline of destruction and self-pity, and if there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s repeating past mistakes. John’s predictable, and apparently only wants things that are bad for him. They talk about it a lot, the terrible secret things he wants for himself.</p><p>Like Sherlock’s shin under his palm. Somehow, traitorously just sitting there.</p><p>Maybe Sherlock will move and it will be another moment of intimacy they’ll pretend is normal. Their closeness recently has been like an old worn jacket, comfortable and familiar, and John has been wearing the skin of their friendship like a shield against everything else. That back and forth was incredibly easy to pick up again, lingering ghosts slowly fading like the scars on Sherlock’s cheek from his misplaced anger.</p><p>And Rosie, blooming like a bright supernova, pointing them both in the right direction.</p><p>“John!“</p><p>He’s pulled out of his own thoughts by Sherlock’s irritated face, painted in blue glow from the television. John finds he can’t offer anything but a blank expression. He hasn’t heard a word, mind too tied up in the solid press of bone under his fingers.</p><p>“Oh for <em>god’s sake</em>”</p><p>Sherlock huffs and suddenly moves forwards, stretching across John’s body for the remote control sitting on his arm of the sofa. All at once his slender frame is the only thing John can see, nose centimetres from the man’s shoulders. Instinctively John reaches out, vacant hand coming to rest against Sherlock’s angled chest. The torso beneath stills, John can feel the circulation of oxygen pushing in and out of Sherlock’s lungs under his touch. Fingers tighten of their own accord, twisting into the soft royal blue cotton there. Canned laughter echoes from the television, as John’s grip refuses to ease.</p><p>“The remote” Sherlock offers, a whisper of air across John’s cheeks.</p><p>He’s so ridiculously tall, even folded nearly in two, that John has to tip his chin up a little to reach Sherlock’s eyes. Really he should let go, but like most moments in his life he can’t seem to. The needle is stuck and the edges of the room are starting to splinter like static. Whatever is coursing down his spine only intensifies as Sherlock meets his gaze.</p><p>The skies in those irises go dark, clouded by something John has seen before, a very long time ago. It’s the beginnings of a storm he had felt rattle across his skin on a mild evening in the hallway of Baker Street, with his back against the wall just laughing and laughing, elements colliding into the surge of an ocean that threatened to consume him and everything he knew, on the bright tarmac of an airstrip, as he failed to say goodbye.</p><p>John inhales sharply through his nose and the smell of Sherlock tightens the knot in his stomach.</p><p>“Sherlock –“</p><p>His mouth parts only for a second before Sherlock takes it in his own. The swell of that bottom lip is slightly chapped and rough and John dies just a little, in that moment. Allows himself to disintegrate in the bitter warm shock of it, reacting instantly. Without hesitation he darts his tongue out to taste Sherlock properly, all the heat he’s always wanted and wondered about. Stolen caramel paints his gums and it’s so sweet, eliciting moans he doesn’t ever remember making before. John’s falling right into it, a feeling of completion he’s desperately been trying to find.</p><p>Vaguely he hears the thud of the remote falling to the carpet, as Sherlock’s fingers card into his hair. Those long digits wrap around the back of his skull like he doesn’t trust the reality of it. And John doesn’t, either, despite the urgency of his mouth against Sherlock’s and his hips shifting upwards at the pull of electricity. He doesn’t know for sure if this is happening, or if he’s being tricked or something terrible is about to rip him apart, if this is just another game, the wedding ring he still can’t take off catching on Sherlock’s shirt buttons –</p><p>“I can’t –“</p><p>John’s voice isn’t his own, it’s coming from someone else surely, tangled there in the back of his throat.  It sounds weak and scared, torn between want and actuality.</p><p>“Sherlock –”</p><p><em>Don’t stop</em>, he wants to finish. <em>Please, don’t</em>. But the words disappear before they’re even formed, and Sherlock goes still. He draws back, letting his hand slip softly from John’s greys. The pure uncertainty there is obvious. It draws the skin between Sherlock’s eyebrows tight, nose flaring with a breath that sounds almost excruciating. John watches the hurt tremble from Sherlock’s eyes and lips, parting and closing again tightly, a thin line of embarrassment and pain.</p><p>He can only manage the first syllable of Sherlock’s name as he lets him leave, weighted down against the sofa by his own immediate regret. The door to the bedroom at the back of the kitchen is slamming before John can even exhale, the harsh catch of the lock making him physically jump.</p><p>The sudden emptiness is palpable. The heaviness of Sherlock’s body on his own had been an anchor, and now John’s being carried off by the current, dragged away from Sherlock against his will. Darkness begins to filter out the furniture and features of the living room until John can barely see. He scrubs hands over his face trying to find oxygen, but it doesn’t come in the claustrophobic nothingness, so he grabs his jacket and heads for the stairs while he can still manage them.</p><p>Against the railings outside, he shakes and shakes, the panic attack shattering through him and bringing bile to his throat. Bent double John breathes, in and out, nose and mouth, repeating the motion until he’s able to put one foot in front of the other again.</p><p> </p><p>//</p><p> </p><p>He spends the night on Molly’s sofa with no explanation, his daughter fast asleep upstairs. In the morning he wakes from no sleep and showers, standing in the hot water for so long that he begins to drift away.</p><p>John wipes the steam from the small mirror in Molly’s bathroom. Stares at a face that doesn’t seem to belong to him, is mocking him for his own self-sabotage. He turns away, reaches to the floor for the phone tucked into his trouser pocket.</p><p>There are no messages. John taps Sherlock’s name, opens up a blank page and hovers over the keyboard.</p><p><em>I’m sorry</em>, he types. His reflection looks back at him with disdain. John holds his thumb down until the words disappear again.</p><p> </p><p>//</p><p> </p><p>Rosie struggles in his arms, so John puts her down to flick on the light, the winter sun barely awake in the early morning. Her tiny feet totter across the carpet and straight to Sherlock’s chair.</p><p>Sherlock’s very empty chair.</p><p>There’s no sign of the man. Even the kitchen table is clean, as if it’s not been touched for days. All the slides and other detritus Sherlock usually leaves lying around have been stacked into a storage box. John even checks his bedroom, a terrible part of him almost wanting to find Sherlock lying there about to relapse, rather than not at all.</p><p>The plateau of silence between them has lasted a little longer than John meant it to. Granted the weekend had already been spoken for – John had scheduled in seeing Harry months ago, and this time it was a welcome distraction. Since announcing he was going to start seeing her again, Sherlock had taken it upon himself to message constantly whenever John went. At first it was a bit much, his phone buzzing every hour, but John quickly found himself needing it, a tether to normality in the presence of his misunderstood sister. Sherlock never failed to provide this lifeline, and yet John’s pocket hadn’t vibrated once during his visit.</p><p>Three days of nothing. The longest they have been apart for over a year, and consequently the most amount of time he and Rosie have spent at their own house. The first night had been fine. They’d both been exhausted from dealing with Harry, and sleep had come as soon as John’s head hit the pillow. But the second night –</p><p>Those long stretching hours had seemed never ending. The house was too quiet, no traffic going by, no glass clinking in the kitchen or violin drifting through the hallway. No one to talk to in the unsociable hours between sleep. Dawn light peeked through the curtains before John’s brain even considered shutting down, and by that hour it was too late to think about closing his eyes. It was then, standing in his own grey kitchen, that John realised he had mentally moved back into 221B months ago, his mind making decisions without his permission.</p><p>A lot of things had apparently happened that way. Like his lips finding Sherlock’s, his palm aching to slide further up his thigh.</p><p>John’s eyes glance towards the sofa and his knees threaten to buckle with the memory of it. How the hell had that happened, so easily and plainly? No great admissions had been made, no grand gestures forced by the threat of death, or adrenaline pumping argument where fists turn to desperate hands – just television. Just sweetened crumbs on the edge of Sherlock’s mouth, and his soft genuine smile in the low light.</p><p>Perhaps the burgeoning worry in his gut is an overreaction. In the past, three days would mean nothing. Sherlock used to be apt at disappearing for over a week at a time, not leaving so much as note. Even in real people terms, not hearing from your friend for a couple of days isn’t exactly unusual. Except, things are different now. They don’t do that to each other anymore. It was a silent agreement made in the back of an ambulance, John still damp with well water and Sherlock still shaking slightly at the edges. Some unspoken pact, fuelled by years of letting each other down.</p><p>John worries his lip and does a final sweep of the flat. He’s no genius and Sherlock knows it. John won’t find any obvious clues to his whereabouts unless he’s meant to.</p><p>They head down the stairs, Rosie threatening to cry because she wants her best friend. It’s a little bit heart-breaking, to see her so attached, the shadow of his own dependency reflected on her small pained features. For a moment he’s pissed at Sherlock for leaving without a word, hurting his daughter without a second thought. That unjustified rage isn’t sustainable though, the lie too transparent. John has done this to them. Sherlock isn’t here because John told him not to be, made him think the invisible line between them was solid and unbreakable, not the dissipating cloud of denial it actually is.</p><p>Every minute and second, John’s been trying to reason it out in his head. They’ve always flirted the way only best friends can, teetering around the concept of anything more and being fine with that, because everyone else already assumed it was. His reliance on Sherlock is complicated and so wrapped up in all the unbelievable things they’ve been through together, that it’s sometimes hard to tell which feelings are fiction. Forty odd years of knowing himself and the thought of wanting his mouth on every inch of Sherlock’s masculine body is still surprising. But he does. He does, and that scared trembling <em>I can’t</em> now seems redundant, a lie brought about by the small-minded boundaries of his upbringing.</p><p>Reluctantly, they step out onto the street. John’s not exactly sure what to do next.</p><p>Turns out, he doesn’t have to decide. The darkened window of a flashy car rolls down as it pulls up to the kerb, and John doesn’t hesitate to yank the passenger door open.</p><p>“Leave the child with your landlady” Mycroft drawls, looking Rosie up and down as if she’s a particularly undesirable dog.</p><p>“Yeah, piss off” John says, covering Rosie’s ears with his hand. “Move over”</p><p>He slides into the leather seat and they sit there in silence for a few moments, his daughter’s sadness quickly slipping away into sleep on his shoulder.</p><p>“I suppose you’ve noticed Sherlock’s absence” Mycroft still has one eye on Rosie, eyes slightly wide as if he expects her to jump up at any moment.</p><p>John sighs, knowing the incoming conversation is going to be unnecessarily long.</p><p>“Yes” He replies through gritted teeth, trying his best to keep sarcasm at bay in an attempt not to prolong the inevitable.</p><p>“I am aware of what has happened between you”</p><p>A sharp breath forces out through John’s nose before he can stop it. He keeps his eyes focused on the back of the seat in front of him, fist clenching against his knee reflexively. His other arm is hooked around Rosie’s torso, her blonde curls mercifully concealing most of his face.</p><p>Since when does Sherlock talk to Mycroft about him? About anything, actually. John can’t decide if he’s mad or just embarrassed, but either way he’s thankful the heat rising in his cheeks is partly hidden, the clench of his jaw masked. To be honest he wasn’t even aware the brothers were on speaking terms at all, really. Sherlock doesn’t mention the elder Holmes, minus scheduling their visits to Sherringford.</p><p>“What exactly do you mean to do upon finding him?” Mycroft enquires, unphased by John’s silence.</p><p>“I think that’s none of your fucking business” John says under his breath, pulse rising with the almost accusatory tone of the man next to him.</p><p>Yeah, he’s irritated now. The situation is beyond uncomfortable and Mycroft has a knack of making his blood boil even on a good day. All he wants to do is find Sherlock and make things right and he doesn’t want help from the jumped up idiot next to him, but. He has to admit, his clues so far as to Sherlock’s location amount to a resounding zero.</p><p>“Just – “ John cuts Mycroft off as he opens his mouth, before the conversation turns murderous. “Tell me where he is, please”</p><p>Perhaps it’s the added platitude, but the other man seems to soften somewhat, as much as is physically possible. He glances down at his watch.</p><p>“You could likely catch the next train to Cardiff, and then a rather expensive taxi to Llancarfan”</p><p>Mycroft glances out of the passenger window, and John closes his eyes as he realises where Sherlock has hidden himself. A cottage shielded by rolling hills and towering trees, far away from their reality. The man hasn’t gone there for the scenery, either. It’s a purposeful location, one Sherlock knows John does not wish to visit again so soon. There’s a ghost there still, sat in front of the fire waiting for John to determine the story that comes next, the fork in the road that eventually leads to his dead wife.</p><p>“Or, you could take the car that’s just arrived and be in Wales by this afternoon”</p><p>“Perfect” John says, rolling his eyes as he prises open the passenger door again.</p><p>There’s no question he means to follow Sherlock. Whatever the potential outcome, he’s not about to leave him alone again, out in the cold expanse of misery waiting for John to find his moral compass. This time he doesn’t need a well constructed plan to trick him into action. Doesn’t need to think twice before going to save his friend. He will never make that mistake again.</p><p>“Doctor Watson,” Mycroft interjects, just before John steps away. “If your plan is to hurt my brother, I urge you to reconsider your journey”</p><p>John pauses for a second with his back to the man, and nearly cuts a scathing reply. Instead though, he shakes his head in disbelief at the audacity of the comment, and heads to the blue Mercedes waiting for them.</p><p>He could probably phone Molly or ask Mrs Hudson to take care of Rosie, but the time apart seems too critical in that moment. John needs the stability his daughter offers, the reassurance of her small smile that means everything is okay and he’s doing the right thing. Because he’s not sure if he is, actually. John has no idea what he’s going to say, or do, or how he’s going to explain what a complete dick he’s been. Again.</p><p>Annoyingly the car is completely comfortable, and John finds himself falling asleep in the heated back seat, Rosie already in another world entirely.</p><p>When he jolts awake, washed out motorway has filtered into expanses of green. Wales is beautiful, and John suddenly feels a little sick.</p><p> </p><p>//</p><p> </p><p>“He’s gone on a hike, my dear”</p><p>Sherlock’s parents really are too lovely to be true. At first it had fascinated John that two seemingly ordinary and socially confident people had produced a self-confessed sociopath and whatever the hell Mycroft is. But then the more time he’d spent around them that Christmas all those years ago, the more of Sherlock he’d seen in his father’s soft eyes and mother’s sharp humour. Their nurturing had obviously broken through somewhere along the way, amid heartache and loss.</p><p>“On a – Sorry, what?”</p><p>John’s stood outside their front door, Rosie shoving her nose into the snowdrops flanking either side. His incredulous look is met with warm smiles and a low chuckle from the senior Mr Holmes. Evidently, Sherlock going on a hike is nothing unusual. Except John’s never seen him go more than a couple of miles without hailing a taxi, and the thought of the man in walking boots and a raincoat is truly baffling.</p><p>“Up the hill over there,” Mrs Holmes gestures to the snow sprinkled tor behind John, just visible across the fields bordering their cottage.</p><p>“Sherlock used to follow the local shepherd around as a boy, wrangling the sheep” She continues, smiling fondly at the memory. “We think he just wanted some friends, really”</p><p>John’s about to lose his actual mind. Not only is he finding out after all this time that their taxi bills could have been cut in half, but now ‘shepherd’ has been added to the list of potential careers the man could have had. Pirate was bad enough.</p><p>“Right, of course he did” John says blankly, not really knowing what to do with that information.</p><p>He glances back at the hill again. Clouds are rolling in and it’s more than a bit nippy. John’s dressed for London, where even in the depths of winter, the blanket of pollution offers enough warmth not to warrant more than a sturdy jacket. He’s going to ruin his bloody shoes, too.</p><p>“Um,” John rolls his lips together, wondering how to ask two people he’s only met once if they’ll look after his daughter while he treks up a hill in the burgeoning snow to confess his feelings to their son.</p><p>Ridiculous.</p><p>Thankfully, they seem to read his mind. John shouldn’t be surprised at that, he realises. Sherlock’s father disappears for a few moments and comes back clutching a red fleece lined parka. It looks miles too big for him, but John takes it anyway, smiling his thanks as Mrs Holmes bends down to Rosie.</p><p>“Would you like to come inside and bake some Christmas cookies with me?” She asks, taking his daughter’s small hand into her own.</p><p>Rosie follows as if she’s already forgotten her father exists, the promise of sugar and the tempting presence of a mother figure too good to resist. John throws on the coat and it absolutely swamps him, but it is efficiently warm.</p><p>“Don’t need a map, do I?” He asks, trying to keep the wariness from his features.</p><p>“It’s a straight shot across that field, should only take thirty, forty minutes at your pace” Mr Holmes gestures. “You can’t go wrong”</p><p><em>You’d be surprised</em>, John thinks. He’s been wrong about so many things, but thankfully his sense of direction still works as it should. John zips up the coat and thanks the elder Holmes again, looking to the sky briefly as a flake of snow falls ominously onto his nose.</p><p> </p><p>//</p><p> </p><p>Thirty-five minutes passes far too quickly. John’s impressed at his own fitness after months of not taking care of himself, but fairly concerned by the lack of coherent sentences forming in his head. There’s so much he wants to say. Condensing it into a neat package that will get Sherlock to like him again is no easy feat.</p><p>Before he knows it, the blurry figure of Sherlock comes into view, unmistakable curls getting caught by the soft winter breeze. Snow has fallen here, it sticks to the grass in odd patches, the crunch of it jolting as John makes his way to the summit.</p><p>He stops several feet away, Sherlock’s back to him, staring out across the Welsh countryside below. Suddenly John wants to turn around and run right the way back down the hill. Any semblance of a plan he was on the cusp of forming has been completely forgotten, stolen by the sight of Sherlock’s cold rouged cheeks, as he turns to face him.</p><p>“Did you shrink?”</p><p>Not exactly the comment he’d expected, but fair. John can’t help the small smile that tugs his lips, looking down at his own comic appearance, drowned in crimson polyester, the fur of the hood nearly consuming his face entirely.</p><p>“Yeah well,” He says, rolling his eyes. “Didn’t expect to find you up a hill in the snow”</p><p>Sherlock’s face softens, his frosty eyes sparkling for a moment. John swallows and looks down at his feet. This is his chance, to say all the things he should say, but the words are leaving him as quickly as the heat is leaving his fingers.</p><p>“I’m sorry, John” Sherlock admits, tugging the Belstaff he’s somehow still wearing tighter across his body.</p><p>No. Nope, that’s not what he came here for. Sherlock has nothing to apologise for yet John’s still letting him, can’t seem to make his lips form anything but a thin line of stagnation. Ice continues to drift slowly down from the sky, white stars in Sherlock’s curls settling and then dissolving into black.</p><p>“It seems I misjudged the situation,” Sherlock continues, prompted by the long stretch of quiet. “I thought it best to give you some time. It was my mistake, to assume –“</p><p>“It wasn’t a mistake” John cuts in, voice rough from his silence.</p><p>They look at each other, Sherlock’s pink nose flaring as he lifts his chin to regard him. There’s a confusion there, John realises. A disbelief. He continues before Sherlock can speak again, the threat of losing his confidence prompting the words from his mouth to be louder, more certain.</p><p>“It wasn’t a mistake, Sherlock”</p><p>John takes a defiant step forwards and allows himself to breathe as Sherlock remains where he is, rooted to the spot by the admission.</p><p>“I was just –“</p><p>Terrified.</p><p>“It caught me off guard, is all”</p><p>Sherlock looks sad, still. The gaze he’d held so firmly drifts away to the frosted grass at his feet, and John sees doubt and embarrassment crinkling the lines of his face. He’s doing a shit job at this. He’s come all this way and now the moment of redemption is slipping from his numbing fingertips.</p><p>John doesn’t know what Sherlock wants, what he needs or thinks about in the dark of night. But he wants to ask, now. He wants to spend every second trying to find those answers, discover them with the touch of his hands and the patience of a slowly mending heart.</p><p>“I want to try,” He offers, trying to keep the shake from his voice. “Whatever this is, I want to try”</p><p>For a moment he wonders if the rejection he so easily pushed onto Sherlock will be turned on himself. John can’t make any grand gestures because doing so would be a lie – of course he loves him, has always, but this is something different, something wild that he can’t promise can be tamed. There will be new rules and new lines, a whole rich tapestry of threads they can each get caught in and pull at unintentionally. It could all come undone, and so all John can really pledge is to try.</p><p>Entire seconds of nothing go by. John knows it’s not the cold shaking his veins as he tightens and relaxes his fist. Then the distance in the middle of them lessens, Sherlock steps towards him and pushes the inane hood from his face.</p><p>“It is what it is” Sherlock says, an echo of everything all at once.</p><p>And what it is, isn’t shit anymore. Not perfect either, but certainly better than the gut twisting pit of emptiness John had been in the last time those words were spoken. Miles away from his shameful adultery and Sherlock’s fragile broken body. They are those men still, and also not at all, shaped by a shared past and separate wounds. They have been healing, and the path of absolution has led them to this.</p><p>John claims the space between them and once again feels his entire body hum with a current of energy that lights his skin on fire. No caramel or stray crumbs this time, just Sherlock and his honest mouth moving against John’s own, sure and unwavering. The absurdity of being atop a hill in the almost-Christmas snow, pushing his tongue past Sherlock’s teeth is laughable, but he doesn’t care. For once John forgets what he should do and instead takes what he wants, what he knows has been his for a while, now.</p><p>“So, a Shepherd?” He asks as they break apart briefly, grinning against Sherlock’s lips.</p><p>“I’m going to kill my mother” Sherlock groans, running a gloved thumb along John’s jawline.</p><p>“It’s almost as ridiculous as consulting detective”</p><p>“But not as ridiculous as that coat”</p><p>John can't argue with that.</p><p>They walk back to the cottage mostly in silence, a comfortable stretch of time where Sherlock offers a hand to John as they climb over stiles, steps side by side with him and lets their elbows bump from time to time. When the cottage finally comes into view again the snow has eased, and Sherlock’s pace slows.</p><p>“You do realise they will likely try to persuade you to stay for Christmas” He says, tone wary and apologetic.</p><p>What Sherlock doesn’t say is – <em>You don’t have to stay here</em> – trapped within walls that speak of past hurts. Except, that pain isn’t quite there, somehow. All John had felt when he’d let his daughter wander into the cottage her mother once visited was warmth, a reassurance that he had long ago been a good man, had made the effort at least, to make things right. Mary isn’t there anymore. She is part of him, part of Rosie and will always be, but John finds he has control now. Only conjures her spirit when he needs it, and often does not.</p><p>“You know what,” John says, small smile bright in the dying daylight. “I wouldn’t say no”</p><p>Sherlock looks slightly surprised and relieved at the same time. They wander back up the garden path, the hand at the small of John’s back guiding him into the hallway as they pass the threshold.</p><p>The Holmes’ kitchen looks like a bomb of white flour has exploded over it, and John reckons it probably has. Rosie’s hair is powdery and her nose too, smile so big he isn’t even mad about the mess. The smell of cookies is particularly enticing, so John takes one as they’re offered to him, while Rosie throws herself into Sherlock’s arms.</p><p>Somehow the evening passes them by quicker than John would have liked. Sherlock’s parents seem to enjoy the company of a tiny human, but are simultaneously wiped out by the energy only a toddler can have. They go off to bed and Rosie follows not soon after, taking the small spare bedroom upstairs. There’s room for John there too, and though sleep is tempting he treads carefully back downstairs, flicking the lights off as he goes.</p><p>Sherlock looks more relaxed than John has seen him for a good while. His collar is open and he’s moved both socked feet onto the sofa, eyes closed as John walks back into the living room. From the back of an armchair he grabs a couple of woollen throws, places one softly over Sherlock’s outstretched body.</p><p>“I hope you intend to get under here too”</p><p>Cuddling under blankets isn’t on John’s list of things he thought he’d ever do with Sherlock, but the inviting blurriness of sleep on his smile is too hard to resist. John nudges his shins with a bat of his hand and Sherlock shifts, making room for him in the vacant seat. The plush sofa is much comfier than the second hand bed of rocks they have at Baker Street, and John sinks into it. Sherlock swings his legs back and into John’s lap. This time, John doesn’t keep his arm at the safe distance of the backrest. Instead, he rests a hand on Sherlock’s thigh and the other on his shin, marvelling at the sudden ease of it.</p><p>John wants to kiss him, but when he glances at Sherlock again the man is fast asleep. He can feel his chest rising and falling beneath the blanket, quiet exhales.</p><p>When he wakes once during the early hours, John finds his world tilted sideways, his head somehow on Sherlock’s chest. It’s uncomfortable and his abdominals hurt but he finds he can’t move, too caught by the heat of the body beneath his own.</p><p>Eventually John drifts back off, Sherlock’s heartbeat low and steady against his cheek. He dreams of nothing, and feels peace.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>'Shepherd' and 'Blankets' prompts are fairly obvious. 'Joy' is the fact you made it to the bottom of this fic and hopefully don't regret the journey.</p><p>P.S<br/>I am imagining the Welsh cottage was either where the family moved after the Musgrave incident, or a holiday cottage they've had since Sherlock’s childhood. Take your pick!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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